Eight months ago when you left this world to go to the next, we, your family made a pact to come together for your birthday so that none of us would have to be alone.

Arno and Ela came from Germany. I came from out west, sadly without Michaela. And Mike, Heather and Spencer drove in from Montreal’s west island to meet at yours and Mom’s home. In my head, this family reunion would be joyful and fun because we would all be together. I thought we would celebrate you, maybe even release balloons with personal notes to you. But that’s not what happened.

I’m not saying that we didn’t share great memories and moments of laughter, after which Mike brought out your silver tray and shot glasses just like you used to do when entertaining guests and we clinked our glasses in your honour. But always the underlying and unspoken fact that you were not sitting out on the deck with us was with me, and I suspect with the others as well.

Frankly, life is not the same without you Dad. I don’t mean to sound all dark and gloomy – honest I don’t, I’m merely stating a fact.

I recently read a book that said when we lose someone we love, we think we are immediately entering our new life without them. Where we usually end up though, is in a kind of metaphorical waiting room – between our old life and our new life. And there we sit, doing things the same way as before, hanging on and reluctant to change or let go for fear of forgetting our loved one.

The book goes on to say it’s normal to do that but the author encourages her readers to take baby steps by changing little things in their routines, a bit at a time, until they are fully participating in their new life. Stepping into their new lives does not, however, make them forget their loved one.

And that’s what we’re doing Dad, each one of us in our own way, but it’s hard. It’s particularly hard for Mom. We’ll figure it out though, Dad. I know you would want us to enjoy life. And even as I write these thoughts here…

I can almost feel your hand reassuringly patting mine and hear you saying, “C’mon Diana…Everything is OK, it’s going to be fine.”

So sorry to know you are missing your dad. I too lost mine a long time ago, but miss him every day.
I don’t know if you’ve ever read this poem. My cousin read it at my cousin Annes funeral. Anne died a couple of months ago very suddenly aged 52. I thought this poem was lovely and when she read it I also thought of my dad.

Oh Diana I feel your loss in these words, it has not been that long for you and grief is an unpredictable thing. I still have moments when I feel the void where my Dad should be and its been ten years since he left us. I guess I find comfort in the good memories of a loving father who knew how to live, laugh and love well. Sounds like your Dad did too, we are the lucky ones Diana. Big virtual hugs from afar xxxxx
Kath

Diana, it is with tears I type this. Sending you a big hug, knowing it is not going to end your sadness, but wanting to share the burden, in some small way. Kath is right: we were lucky to have dads that loved and cared for us so much. 💕

Wonderful, Diana. Thank you for sharing your love for your dad with us.
-Alan
Time heals many wounds, except the loss of one we love. That scar on our hearts keep their memory alive and one day will be healed when we are again united with them by God’s merciful love.
-Alan

Diana!!! The “waiting room” exactly explains it. I’ve never heard that before. Thank you for sharing it. I’m sorry, again, for your loss. How wonderful though, that the remembering is full of goodness and love.

A beautiful post Diana. It is a transition from the waiting room and can be difficult to move through as our lives go on without them. Knowing he is beside you, encouraging you and loving you from afar,is comforting and will give you strength each day.

Your message brought tears to my eyes. I used to think tears tended to come in two varieties healing and joy, but I just realized ones in my eyes are a bit of both, but mostly they are tears that come from a feeling of connection. Thank you for helping to fuel more clearly today, My Friend.